18

‘Well, he’s playing with you, isn’t he?’ Kennedy said, helping himself to the mound of gnocchi alla gorgonzola which Steele had left almost untouched on her plate. ‘Cat and mouse. Showing you who’s in control, who’s boss. Thinks he’s so bloody clever. He’s deliberately belittling you, of course, treating you as a sex object. But then he sees all women as objects. Some just suit his purposes better than others.’ He scooped up another large forkful of gnocchi.

Steele watched him silently, amazed that he kept so svelte, given how much he seemed to eat. She had no appetite, the words in the email still swimming around in her mind. They had been to Hammersmith Bridge for a cursory look and she had waited patiently for nearly half an hour in the warmth of Kennedy’s car while he paced up and down, talking into a dictaphone as he examined every detail of the bridge and the immediate surrounding area. When he was done, he had confirmed that it was far too early to make any pronouncements as to whether what had happened might possibly fit the pattern. On the one hand, the MO had changed. On the other, he agreed that the proximity to the murder team’s office was striking, almost like a direct challenge. Hungry and irritated at being kept waiting for so long for so little result, she bit back the desire to tell him that Tartaglia had already arrived at the same conclusions.

Kennedy seemed to be taking it all blithely in his stride, back in the car talking nineteen to the dozen, in a state of professional elation about the email. She found it impossible to be so detached. She felt shaken, somehow dirtied by having received it and she wanted to punch fucking Tom, get him on the ground and take a pair of heavy boots to his head. How dare he. How fucking dare he. She knew she was an obvious target but it still got to her, eating away at her in every quiet moment. The thought that he knew, or had somehow guessed, that she lived on her own was particularly unnerving.

Kennedy stretched his arm across the table and patted her hand. ‘Carolyn, you’re not upset, are you?’ Wary of giving him any encouragement, she slid her hand away and reached for her glass, taking a sip of wine to hide her confusion.

‘You mustn’t let it get to you,’ he continued, thick-skinned as ever, ignoring the small rejection.

‘I’m not,’ she said firmly.

‘It’s what he wants. He’s trying to get under your skin. He has a very high opinion of himself and it’s a game to him, nothing more. You’ve got to try and remember that.’

She took another sip of wine. ‘Thanks. I’ll bear it in mind.’

Was there any point in keeping up the pretence? Part of her wanted to tell him how she really felt, get it off her chest. Maybe she’d feel better. But if she opened up, she knew he would use it to his advantage, draw closer to her, and it would be impossible to push him away again. She had to keep a distance between them. The easiest policy was to let him talk, not interrupt the flow, and try and let it wash over her, as if none of it mattered.

He gave her his usual warm smile. ‘You know, it might have been better if you’d got one of the blokes to do Crimewatch. On the other hand, maybe it’s good to get a dialogue going.’

‘Dialogue? Is that what you call it? I hardly have the right of reply, do I? The bastard’s untraceable.’

‘Of course. He’s calling the shots and that’s how he likes it,’ he said, eyeing her kindly, if a little questioningly, as he drained his glass. He grabbed the half-empty bottle, poured himself some more wine and topped up hers at the same time. ‘He conforms perfectly to type, you know. Organised, with a grandiose sense of self-worth, as well as being manipulative and devious. He’s incapable of feeling empathy, guilt or remorse. Other people are only objects to serve his purpose. Although labels aren’t really helpful to you, he’s your classic charismatic psychopath.’

‘Charismatic? You’re joking.’

‘It’s a clinical sub-group. He has the ability to be engaging, charming, slick and verbally facile, as we’ve seen in his emails to the girls, as well as this one to you. He also needs excitement, likes taking risks and living dangerously, which is why he emailed you. He’s upped the temperature and thinks he’s invincible.’

She took a gulp of wine and smacked the glass down hard on the table. ‘He’s bloody evil, that’s what he is.’

‘Maybe, but the more risks he takes, the more chance we have of catching him.’ He put on a pair of half-moon reading glasses and unfolded the copy of the email, studying it again carefully. She had never seen him in glasses before and he looked different, suddenly older and more scholarly. She found it strangely endearing, as if it made him more approachable and human.

‘It’s interesting how he’s changed his style,’ he said, still scanning the page. ‘He was much more flowery when he was writing to the girls. But with you, of course, he’s pitching to a different audience. He’s quite a chameleon, don’t you think?’

‘What the hell does it matter?’

Wishing that she could be as logical and dispassionate, she stared down at the table, trying to clear her mind and press down on the anger she felt. But it was impossible. She didn’t usually drink much and her head was spinning, thoughts whirling uncontrollably, unable to obliterate the email from her mind. She felt out of control and feared that she might burst into tears at any minute.

Misinterpreting what she was thinking, he added: ‘You’re not his type. So I shouldn’t worry.’

She looked up at him, not sure whether to laugh or cry. ‘Yes. He likes young flesh, doesn’t he?’

‘It’s not just that. Of course, you’re very attractive. But you’re far too strong and together for him. He picks weak victims because underneath it all, in spite of his bravura, he’s not up to a real challenge. He can manipulate these poor little girls and do what he wants with them, although he despises them all the more for it. In sending you that email, he’s trying to make you one of them. But he can’t. He knows you’re not like that. It’s interesting that his seeing you on the TV is the trigger for the email. He probably hates strong women even more than weak ones. Probably had a domineering, bullying mother at home, bossing him, controlling him, smothering him, forcing him to escape into the fantasy world in his head. It was the only place where he was in control, where he could be himself and play out his games without interference.’

‘Lots of people were fucked up as children. But they don’t turn into murderers.’

He smiled serenely, ignoring her. ‘I’ll put my money on his being an only child, or the youngest child, with a big gap between him and the next sibling. I also expect he was a real weed and bullied at school. But I’ll give you chapter and verse on all of that when I finish my report.’

She folded her arms, leaning back in her chair until she felt the edge touch the wall behind her. ‘I don’t give a stuff about what happened in his childhood. All that matters is that he’s evil.’

He shrugged. ‘Maybe. Whatever the reality, the simple fact is that he’s angry. He’s been made to feel inadequate all his life and, as I think I told you, I’m pretty sure he’s impotent. That only adds to the anger and violence he feels inside. In killing, he’s taking back the power. It’s all about control. You may think his background is only of academic interest to people like me, but he’s targeting you specifically because you’re a woman. A man in charge of the case wouldn’t have got the same reaction, I’m positive. Like it or not, you may have to deal with him in the near future, so you need to bear in mind his psychology.’

She looked at him aghast. ‘Deal with him? What do you mean?’

He looked surprised. ‘He’s going to contact you again, of course. Maybe he’ll try and get you to respond.’ Perhaps sensing her revulsion, he added: ‘I wouldn’t worry. I don’t think he actually wants to see you face to face. It’s just a little fantasy of his, all part of the game, kidding himself that he has the ability to form a relationship with you, if he so chooses.’

‘It’s a fucking sick fantasy,’ she said, as the waiter took away the plates and left them with dessert menus.

Kennedy gave his a cursory look and slapped it down on the table. ‘Panna cotta for me. What about you?’

She shook her head. ‘Nothing, thanks. I’m just not hungry.’

He took off his glasses and tucked them away in his breast pocket. A moment passed before he said: ‘You are going to tell your whole team what’s happened, aren’t you?’

‘Only Mark and Gary. I don’t think it’s a good idea for the rest of them to know.’

‘What are you worried about? The email’s an important piece of the puzzle.’

‘What if the press get to hear of it?’

‘I still think it’s a risk worth taking. Why don’t you break the news at the morning meeting tomorrow and I’ll come and give them a profile update?’ Sensing her hesitation, he added: ‘You’re ashamed of the way he’s written to you, aren’t you? You find all the personal stuff an affront.’

‘Damn right I do,’ she said bitterly, suddenly finding it a relief that Kennedy seemed to understand.

‘But it’s not about you, it’s about him. Put yourself in his shoes. By treating you like all the others he’s actually de-personalising you.’

‘Well, it doesn’t come across that way.’

‘I understand why you feel that but…’

‘Don’t give me all that psychologist crap, Patrick. You have no idea what it feels like.’

He nodded sympathetically, as though he was dealing with a fractious child, which made her feel even angrier. ‘Naturally, you’re upset…’ he said, looking concerned.

‘Upset? Of course I’m bloody upset. But this is all just a job to you, isn’t it?’

The room suddenly felt very hot. She stood up, wanting to dash to the ladies to get away from his gaze, splash some water on her face. But he caught hold of her hands and forced her back down in her chair.

‘Please listen to me, Carolyn. Of course the case fascinates me. I’d be an out and out liar to say otherwise. But I only took it on because you asked me to. I’m not you, I don’t know exactly what you’re feeling but I can imagine. Bloody furious, I expect. Absolutely livid. You also feel vulnerable, don’t you? And that’s not a comfortable feeling for someone like you, is it?’

Embarrassed by the warmth in his eyes, she tugged her hands away and folded her arms tightly across her chest again. ‘I don’t need analysing, thanks.’

‘It doesn’t help that you feel isolated within your own team. I can see what’s happening with Tartaglia. He’s an arrogant, headstrong sod and he hates the fact that you’ve been brought in over his head. I’ll bet he’s trying to undermine you at every possible opportunity, maybe even turn the whole team against you. It’s all that latin machismo stuff coursing in his veins. Probably doesn’t like taking orders from a woman. You need support at a time like this, not gang warfare.’ He paused, rubbing his lips thoughtfully with a finger before adding: ‘I don’t know how it works, but maybe if you have a word with Cornish, you can get him taken off the case or even transferred elsewhere. There must be some disciplinary issue you could get him on.’

She shook her head, not wishing to discuss the situation any further. It pained her to think about it. Like it or not, what Kennedy said about Tartaglia rang uncomfortably true and she felt threatened. But she knew she would get no sympathy from Cornish. Attitude and arrogance were not hanging offences and Tartaglia had a good stock of credit with the people who mattered up in Hendon. If she couldn’t handle him, it would only reflect badly on her. With no solution to the case in sight, she was already on rocky ground.

She felt a headache coming on and closed her eyes, putting her hands to her face and massaging her temples and the bridge of her nose with her fingers, trying to fight back the tears. He was right about everything, of course. Too bloody right for comfort and she hated him seeing her that way. She must seem so pathetic and weak. The fact that he appeared to understand her, that he saw what was inside so clearly, made her feel ten times more vulnerable, drawing her towards him in spite of herself. There was nobody else she could talk to who understood and he seemed genuinely to care about her. But she wondered why he did, why he bothered. She felt all the old wariness surfacing again, suspicious of his motives for wanting to get close, questioning what it was that really interested him. Could she trust him?

‘Going back to the email, you feel despoiled by it, don’t you?’ he said.

She nodded slowly, not able to meet his eye, focusing on the flickering flame of the candle in front of them.

‘But that’s exactly what Tom wants,’ he continued. ‘He wants to get to you, pollute your thoughts and dreams, play mind games with you. If you let him, he will be winning. Take a deep breath, clear your head and try and think straight.’

He reached over and took her hand again in his. His grasp felt cool and strong, his fingers gently stroking her skin. It felt so reassuring and this time she didn’t pull away immediately, although she still found it impossible to look him in the eye.

‘I’m with you on this, Carolyn. Trust me. I’ll look after you and together we’ll nail the bastard, I promise.’

Tartaglia said goodbye to Donovan and headed out to his motorbike, which was parked outside the pub by the embankment. A light wind was blowing and the night air was cold and damp, the sky almost cloudless with the moon rising just above the river. He put on his helmet and drove off down the High Street.

Nearing the intersection with Castelnau, he spotted what looked like Kennedy’s Morgan, parked on a double yellow line on the wrong side of the road, in front of the parade of shops just before the crossroads. As he slowed to check, he saw Kennedy and Steele come out of one of the restaurants. They were walking close together, almost arm in arm, and appeared to be deep in conversation. He passed them and pulled up just around the corner, watching behind in his mirror. Kennedy escorted Steele over to the passenger side and unlocked the door, giving her his hand to help her into the low seat. Kennedy said something to her then, before closing the door, he tucked the trailing folds of her coat around her. The gesture struck Tartaglia as intimate and inappropriate. Fearing that his worst suspicions were being confirmed, he watched Kennedy walk around to the other side and climb in.

Even in the mirror, Tartaglia could see the smile on Kennedy’s face. Like the cat with the proverbial cream, he thought. If they were having an affair, he’d go straight to Cornish. Cornish was notoriously intolerant of such things and in the current tense climate, fearful of the press getting wind of anything negative, he’d have Kennedy, and possibly Steele too, off the case in a flash. Determined to find out for sure what was going on, Tartaglia decided to follow them.

Kennedy drove along Castelnau, over the bridge and headed for Kensington, then Hyde Park and north up the Edgware Road. Although Tartaglia had no idea where either of them lived, they were going in the general direction of Hendon, probably making for Steele’s place. Keeping a safe distance behind, each time they stopped at a set of lights he could see Kennedy through the small back window, gesticulating and nodding, as if engaged in a lively conversation. Kennedy was driving conspicuously slowly, possibly worried about being stopped and breathalysed and Tartaglia was tempted to call in his licence number. But with Steele in the car, he had to leave it. After another ten minutes, they turned off Kilburn High Road, past West Hampstead tube and forked right down a series of wide, residential side streets, eventually pulling over and double-parking in front of a large, semi-detached house set back from the street behind a low wall and a hedge.

Tartaglia stopped behind a small van under some trees on the opposite side of the road and killed the engine, waiting. After a moment, Kennedy got out, walked round to Steele’s side and opened the door for her, again offering her his hand to help her out. They exchanged a few words on the pavement and pecked each other briefly on the cheek. As Steele turned to go, Kennedy seemed to catch hold of her hand again but she pulled away and walked up the path. Kennedy stood by the gate, watching as she put her key in the door and she gave him a brief wave before turning and going inside. Shortly after, lights came on at garden level and someone Tartaglia assumed was Steele drew the curtains across the large bay window at the front. Kennedy waited for a moment, staring at the front of the house, then got back in the car and started the engine, turning on the headlamps.

That appeared to be it. Tartaglia didn’t know whether to feel disappointed or relieved. It certainly didn’t look like an affair to him. From what he had seen, Kennedy was interested but Steele seemed to be treating him merely as a friend. The thought of Kennedy’s ego receiving a bruising gave him a brief flicker of satisfaction. He waited in the shadows, not wanting to start up the bike until Kennedy had gone. But five minutes later, Kennedy was still sitting there in his car, engine idling. Perhaps Steele was coming out again after all. Perhaps he had misread the situation and she was getting some things and they were going to Kennedy’s place for the night. Suddenly Kennedy’s headlamps went out again and the engine stopped running.

A few seconds later, Kennedy got out of the car and walked up to Steele’s front door, lingering by the steps for a moment as if wondering whether or not to ring the bell. Then he walked around to the front window where he stood, his head just visible over the top of the hedge, shifting from one foot to the other, as though he was trying to peer though a crack in the curtains. His movements were furtive. After a moment, he walked back to the front gate, peered up and down the street, then went back into the garden, disappearing around the side, presumably towards the back of the house.

Kennedy was peeping. Almost unable to believe what he was seeing, Tartaglia’s first instinct was to follow him and catch him red-handed. It would be a very sweet moment. But even as he thought about doing it, he stopped himself, knowing just what Kennedy would say, how he would lie through his teeth. Tartaglia could just imagine his tone of outrage: ‘I was just making sure Carolyn’s safe, that there’s nobody lurking in her back garden.’ The email she had received was ample justification for concern and Steele would believe Kennedy. Also, how on earth could Tartaglia explain his own presence there? As he wondered what to do, his mobile rang. He bent down, cradling it into his chest to dampen the noise, and saw Fiona Blake’s name flash on the screen. After a second’s hesitation, he flipped it open.

‘Mark. It’s me. Can we talk?’ Her voice sounded husky and thick.

‘When did you have in mind?’ he whispered, his eyes on Steele’s front garden, watching for any sign of movement.

‘Is there something wrong with the line? I can barely hear you. I know it’s late but what about now? Can I come and see you?’

‘I’m not at home. I’m in the middle of something.’

‘Oh.’ She sounded disappointed. ‘Tomorrow, then?’

‘Maybe. I’ll call you when I finish work. Got to go.’ Seeing Kennedy re-emerging down the path, he hit the red button before she could reply.

With a last, lingering look over his shoulder in the direction of Steele’s front window, Kennedy climbed back into his car and drove off. Tartagalia waited a few more minutes to make sure that Kennedy was not going to return, and then he switched on his engine. It was definitely going to be worth keeping a closer eye on Kennedy.

Carolyn Steele kicked off her shoes, tossed her coat over the back of the sofa in the sitting room and went from room to room closing the curtains and blinds, checking that all the windows and both the front door and the French windows at the back were securely locked. It was all because of that stupid email. Irrational fears were one of the penalties of choosing to live on your own, she told herself, but she was prone to them. ‘Night fears’ was what her dad used to call them when, as a child, she’d been unable to go to sleep or would wake up crying in the middle of the night. All to do with chemicals in the brain, she’d read in some magazine. But it didn’t put a stop to them. Would the comfort of having somebody sleeping next to her drive them away? She doubted it.

She had lived in this flat for over ten years, spending time and money getting it exactly the way she wanted. Although the ceilings were low, it had large windows front and back, almost to ground level, and was light and airy during the day. She had gone to a lot of trouble to make it comfortable and welcoming, buying a colourful rug to brighten up the dull beige carpet and putting a gas log fire in the old marble fireplace, hanging an antique mirror above. She had built cupboards on either side, with a few rows of shelving above for her books, CDs and the few things which held any sentimental value, like the photos of her nephew and niece and the Victorian sewing box, inlaid with small diamonds of ivory, which used to belong to her grandmother.

She felt more at ease here than anywhere else. Even so, dark corners could open up and take her by surprise and occasionally she was forced to sleep with the light on. Perhaps she should have allowed Patrick to come in for coffee, just tonight. But he’d been quite pushy about it in the car, which she had found annoying. He was so bloody presumptuous and sure of himself and she resented feeling as though she was being manoeuvred into a corner. Maybe it would have been good to carry on talking, but she was worried that things wouldn’t stop there. Better to seem rude than to do anything impulsive that she might regret later.

Her head was starting to throb and she grabbed a couple of Hedex from the cabinet in the bathroom and went into the galley kitchen. Searching in a cupboard for a tin of cocoa, she caught sight of a bottle of single malt whisky that an admirer had given her the Christmas before last. Designed to impress, it had a fancy label and looked expensive. She rarely drank spirits and it had stayed lurking at the back of the cupboard behind the baked beans ever since, untouched. Knowing that it was unlikely to make her feel any better, she cracked open the seal and poured herself a small measure, just for the hell of it. It tasted sharp and smoky in an unpleasant way but she was determined to drink it. Maybe if she got properly pissed she’d be able to forget about everything and sleep. She took the glass into the sitting room and sat for a moment in one of the large, deep chairs, flicking through the TV channels before switching off in disgust. As usual, there was nothing worth watching.

Gulping down the remainder of the whisky, she went into the bedroom and got undressed. She turned on the shower, stepped in and closed her eyes, letting the hot water wash over her. Patrick. Had she made a mistake in involving him in the case? Or was she silly to be so wary? Perhaps she should just stop worrying and let herself go. She had to admit that she still found him superficially attractive and the attention was flattering. It wasn’t as if she was spoilt for choice. Beneath the bravado, he had a more serious side, almost steely at times, and he was rarely boring. But something kept holding her back, although she wasn’t exactly sure what it was.

She knew little about his background, other than that he was a Catholic and had never been married. For a man the wrong side of forty, that was telling you something. Once he had said jokingly that he’d never married because he hadn’t found the right woman. But she knew it was a load of rubbish. He was so self-absorbed, she couldn’t imagine him caring deeply about anyone else, let alone ever really letting go and falling in love. Her good friend Lottie always seemed to pick men like that. She’d often watched the trajectory of Lottie’s relationships, wondering why Lottie, who in other respects was a relatively sensible person, couldn’t see what was in front of her nose. Some men were walking disasters and any woman who allowed herself to get involved with someone like that was just asking to get hurt. She was determined that it wouldn’t happen to her. Although knowing it with one’s head was one thing; physical attraction made even the sanest people do the silliest of things.

She thought back to that one drunken night they had spent together nearly a year before. The sex had been fine, at a basic functional level. But somehow she had been expecting more of a connection, more electricity. Something. The whole thing felt impersonal, disappointing and flat like a glass of champagne that had lost its fizz. It was as though she didn’t matter; she could have been anybody. It was all about him and she realised she had made a mistake to let things go so far. Kennedy seemed blithely unaware of her reaction and had asked her to go away with him the following weekend. When she had refused, he had seemed very surprised, as if nobody ever turned him down, and had pestered her to have dinner with him again. But the more he persisted, the more her instincts told her to back off and she had avoided all contact with him on the work front until the phone calls finally stopped.

One thing that puzzled her was why, after everything that had happened, he still seemed drawn to her. Was it her independence, perhaps, and the fact that she hadn’t succumbed easily to him? It was all about conquest, surely. She was unfinished business as far as he was concerned, a challenge. With all his psychological insight about others, had he any inkling of his own motivation? Had he any self-awareness at all? She doubted it. A relationship with such a man would be doomed. Every time she felt herself weaken, she must remember that and not allow sheer physical attraction and flattery to lead her astray. Even so, she felt as though she was struggling to keep her balance at the top of a slippery slope. A slope that probably had all sorts of unpleasant and potentially damaging things waiting at the bottom.